


The Funeral

by reverent_audacity



Category: Danny Phantom
Genre: Danny is dead, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Heavy Angst, and Vlad is the one that killed him
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-16
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-17 21:07:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29478195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reverent_audacity/pseuds/reverent_audacity
Summary: The villain only needs to win once.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 20





	1. Chapter 1

**Chapter One; The Funeral**

It was a damp, musty Saturday afternoon when they buried him. In and out of the church, the thick moist air suffocated its congregants. The fog stuck to the stained glass, obscuring saints and angels. Sweat or tears made shining faces of each attendee, filing slowly to the casket. Jasmine was fielding the well-wishers, shaking hands and pinching her eyes to approximate smiling. Behind her, Jack and Maddie leaned on chairs and one another, barely hanging on. It was the first time in a decade anyone in town could recall seeing either outside of a hazmat suit. Even Sam Manson was too stunned, didn’t have the heart to wear black. She came in a snow-white gown and “D” necklace; the necklace she’d given Danny Fenton when they started dating back in high school.

For the few in the room that knew the significance, the white dress was a chilling symbol. It indicated how he lived; what he sacrificed for this town; the state he was in when he died. The body in the casket, for all his struggling, moaning, and surges of acid green power at the last moment, did not look like the Phantom legend of Amity Park. The boy they put to rest had no glow to him, green or otherwise. He was pale and bloodless. His long dark eyelashes, surgically sealed, were closed for the final time on lightly freckled cheeks. His coal black hair was not its ordinary silky mess around his face. The mortician had pasted it back in a traditional fashion along her course of pruning, and he lay against the pillow like a teen on the sofa come home late from prom.

Everyone who knew him knew it was wrong. Other people died, but not Danny. Never Daniel. A boy with so much spirit, only nineteen years of age.

In the back pew, Vlad Masters swallowed dryly. His coworkers in the city council knew Daniel was his friend’s son, but they couldn’t understand the mayor’s erratic behavior. He hadn’t been to work all week; he missed meetings without even bothering to call and cancel. This public appearance did not speak much for his health, either. He seemed in equal or worse shape to the boy’s actual parents, slumped and kneeling with his forehead on the back of the seat ahead of him.

Shaking and frail as he was, no one would be surprised to learn he hadn’t slept for days. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the boy’s eyes flittering in and out of focus. No one would be surprised to learn he hadn’t eaten for days. What he managed to choke down he would immediately wretch up, so in the fog of it he gave up on cooking anything at all. He didn’t care if he starved; for the first time in his life, he doubted his right to be alive.

Tucker Foley scowled at him from the doors of the church. He had taken care of handing out the programs to everyone that entered, and now before the service he leaned against the door frame smoking. Vlad was surprised the boy had allowed him inside, knowing what he’d done. He knew better than to approach the family, and did not trust his stomach to see Daniel in his final repose. He felt the burning stare as keenly as if Tucker had twisted two lit cigarettes into his back. When he passed the rapidly aging man on his way to join the Fentons, he paused and addressed him from the corner of his mouth: “If you’re going to shrivel up like that, you had better be praying. Pray harder than anyone in this church, for Danny and yourself.”

Vlad watched Tucker’s boots squeak against the waxed floor as he trudged away. God knows if he could pray. God knows who would listen. The effort might burn him from the inside, the attempt might provoke some divine force into finally punishing him. Lifting his chin weakly to look on the scene, he raised two fingers and tapped his temple, sternum, heart and across. If it could undo his foolish mistake, the man would even brace the fires of Hell.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two; The Afterparty**

The town’s hero being dead didn’t tame the unruly ghost population. They didn’t see the big problem, having been dead for decades and centuries themselves. “So the ghost kid wasn’t even dead?” Johnny 13 laughed, cracking open a soda can where he stood beside the freshly packed soil of Phantom’s grave. “Sorry sucker.” Kitty rode up beside him, not so mirthful herself but at ease to see her skylark in such high spirits. She grabbed his arm and gave a convivial snicker. “He was such a try-hard. Like, imagine working so hard it actually kills you, right?”

The midnight of Danny’s funeral, when all the living had shuffled back to their homes, the dead slowly gathered for their own witness. Technus consulted Youngblood before playing “Despacito” from a smart speaker on his gauntlet (“What is it, is this what kind of music the youth are into? Well, it isn’t so bad.”).

Walker stalked up to the headstone with his hands in his pockets, muttering to himself. “Good riddance… Eternity with _you_ locked up in my prison? I don’t think so.” He spat on the grave and turned to walk off again. Ember shoulder-checked him on his way, seeing through the tough guy act completely.

She crouched down to address the dirt. “What a softie. He’s going to miss you, actually.” She paused, then stood up cheerfully. “Not me, though! I’ve got enough to do without you getting in my way. Don’t worry, I’ll be the rock star I was always supposed to be.” Her hair flickered playfully, wisps of purple and green streaking through the flame. Johnny 13, who had since put down a blanket in the grass to rest with Kitty, negged her from across the graveyard. “What, and let me guess: all of Amity Park will remember you? The living don’t care about the dead, diva.”

Ember glared at him, some of the fire reflecting in her pupils. “They might not care about acoustic-picking bums like you, but _I_ am an _idol_ , thank you very much. An icon, actually.”

“Sure, sugar,” Kitty smirked. “Well, if this town gives a damn about any one of us departed, it’s Phantom, there. And look how they left him! Sewn up in a box, like a damn Build-a-Bear.”

The ghosts surrounding the grave hummed in agreement, mainly, but for the Box Ghost who was agitated by the comparison between Phantom’s casket and a box. He was visibly straining to think through it: (“Well, it’s still a box if it’s made of wood… But is it nailed shut, or just sealed on a hinge like a cabinet?”) Ember scrunched up her nose in annoyance. “What are you, a bleeding heart? We all go that way. It’s just his flesh, anyway; he’ll be back to normal once his spirit finds its way out.”

“Will it?” Desirée mused. Ember startled, having not sensed her approach.

“I don’t see why it wouldn’t. He was a bastard half-dead, I’m sure he’s no different full-dead. There must be some unresolved business to tie him to this world,” Walker chimed in.

Desirée tangled a finger through her hair, looking on mysteriously. “I’m not so sure. As much as I teased him, he was a pure-hearted boy.”

“Pure-hearted!” Skulker snorted. “Don’t be so eager to speak well of the dead, genie…” Desirée folded her arms, not being fond of the term. Skulker continued, “That being said, I agree with you. Who knows if the ordinary rules of passing over apply to him? He is the only child we know of that’s ever half-died…” Some of the ghosts around the grave nodded in agreement. Skulker sighed. “Phantom was a bizarre breed. My one great regret is to not have that halfa for my collection.”

Penelope Spectra smirked at the philosophical turn of the conversation. It made her inner educator sing (as deeply buried into her compartmentalized personality as it was). “Nothing like a good Socratic discussion, hmm? Well, let’s wait and see. We’ll water him nicely and see if he sprouts. But for now, let’s enjoy the garden party.”

At that, Technus turned up the bass on his speaker, and the ghosts went wild.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three; Jazz’s Injunction**

Three weeks passed by in a drunken blur. Masters had resigned as mayor by asking his housekeeper to send a fax. His human company did not know how he made it to Wisconsin overnight. His private jet sat unused in Amity Park as his spirit wandered back to his mansion in the Wisconsin wilderness. He was only sober enough to keep the manor locked as he involuntarily found himself shifting between human and ghost. When well-wishers rang his door bell, he howled at the noise and demanded they be sent away.

While he was incapacitated, the ghosts loose in Amity Park celebrated. Danny’s death had become their Mardi Gras; the streets unpatrolled were lively with paranormal activity. Any petty crime or frivolous haunting was fair game with Phantom out of the picture. That he had been the Fentons’ son in life was a bonus. With his family preoccupied by mourning, there weren’t so much as novice ghost catchers to interfere with the spirits’ plans.

Vlad was unaware of all this. To the best of his ability, he wanted to be unaware of everything. He wanted to be unaware of the pounding in his head, unaware of the blood stained into palms, unaware of the sin on his soul. He lay in absolute darkness, curled up underneath a laboratory workstation in the basement of his home. Even as the mansion swelled with blistering July heat, Vlad lay on the laboratory tile shivering. As he tightened his legs closer to him, empty bottles of booze on the ground beside him clicked together.

Over the PA system, another visitor called down to him which made his heart go still.

“Vlad, it’s Jazz Fenton.”

He held his face in his hands, willing her to go away.

“I know you’re in there.”

When he pulled his hands away from his eyes they were wet. He couldn’t feel his face, he didn’t know if he was crying or if he had fallen asleep in a puddle of liquor. For either case the scent of ethanol was soaked into his very skin. He imagined briefly, an alternate universe where one of his machines let off a spark of electricity and burned the entire house down, burning him with it. That did not relieve him much.

The voice of his nemesis’s sister was now mixed with someone else’s. His housekeeper was doing her best to shoo the young lady away, but Jasmine could not be convinced. “Mr. Masters, sir, she is persistent to receive your company… Mr. Masters?”

“Let her in,” His voice cracked as he croaked up to her from his place on the floor. “I will… prepare myself for her company. A few minutes, please.”

Slowly, he pressed his palms into the floor; bashing his head against the table as he found his way to his feet in the dark. He bid himself intangible and floated upward to the master bathroom, rinsing himself lazily. He was too intoxicated to notice, he washed his hair with body soap and scrubbed his body with shampoo. Then, stumbling out, he went intangible again. The water splashed to the floor around him, drying him instantaneously. He stood squinting at his own reflection, straining in the relative brightness of the naturally-lit room. His ordinarily precise goatee had sprawled out into grey patches all around his jaw and cheeks. His hair stuck to his back, tangled beyond any hope of reasoning with. He spilled it into a loose bun, swished and spat some mouthwash, then tugged on a university sweatshirt and pants. In his right mind, he would never face someone in this state. But were he sober enough to dress himself, he wouldn’t have the nerve to look at the sister of the boy he killed.

Rubbing his sleepless eyes, he sank slowly through the floor and into his parlor. There, Jasmine sat with crossed legs. She had made herself comfortable, ticking on the ceiling fan and getting her own ice water. In years past, when Jasmine called on him, she would start by shooing away his wait staff. Although she appreciated his home’s rich décor, she was a working-class girl through and through and was not comfortable being fussed over by his employees.

Vlad quirked his lips painfully. His facial muscles were not in agreement with each other; one group meant to smile politely, and the other more overpowering group made a wounded expression. The equation came out to a devastated grimace.

“I know you did it,” she started simply. His knees nearly gave out, but he limped to the living room chair across from her and collapsed into it. He was ready to take any punishments she saw fit to give, but he’d fight his impulse to drop to his knees and beg forgiveness. Someone like him did not deserve forgiveness, and he would not disrespect her by asking.

She clasped her hands in her lap, running the side of her thumb across the opposite hand to self-soothe. She had been looking at the ground beside him as she spoke. “I don’t know how.” She looked him straight in the eyes. “Tell me.”

He was shocked silent. He felt a violent rush to his ears, and dove for the waste bin in the corner. When he finished vomiting, Jasmine was still looking at him.

“I am not going to tell Jack and Maddie. They shouldn’t have to suffer the extra grief, of knowing their son was murdered by their college friend. But I need to know how you killed him.” She paused. “So I can move on.”

He sat on wood floor across from her, not daring to stand up again and no longer attempting to mask his drunkenness. He coughed, clearing his throat enough to speak in a rasp. “Why, why didn’t you ask… Sam and Tucker.”

“Why should I make them relive it? They were only witnesses. You were the murderer.” Her knuckles were white, she held her hands so tightly. But her face was blank, her blue-green eyes dry.

Every child in that family was tough as nails, Vlad thought to himself. Without so much as a threat on his life, her eyes are like a knife in his ribs. His chest aches.

“Answer my question.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Answer me, Vlad. It’s the least you can do, you pathetic excuse for a man.”

He didn’t even react to her insult. He had thoughts three times as cruel whirling through his head, since that night. If anything, hearing the anger in her voice relieved him after weeks of excruciating mercy.

“…I don’t know.”

“What?”

“I don’t know. He wasn’t… he wasn’t supposed to. To die.” He squeezed the bridge of his nose as a wave of pain flashed through his skull. Migraine, dehydration, hunger, headache, hangover, memories, he couldn’t separate out the cause after weeks of continued numbness. “He… shouldn’t have been able to die. Not all the way. I never thought he would die all the way.”

“Then why did you try to kill him? It wasn’t one time. I saw you two, when you went at it. You were always taking out your frustrations on him. Beating into him like he was a slab of raw meat. Like, like he wasn’t even human to you!” She finally broke her calculated tone, slamming her fist into the arm of his sofa. He saw small bloody half-circles pressed into her palms where she’d been squeezing. “You can’t tell me that was the only time you tried to kill him! You can’t tell me that it was an accident!”

Vlad was silent, watching her anger fully spill out. When Jazz was beyond herself, her fair skin caught a flush that would spill from her cheeks and down her neck and arms. She was turning pink with rage, not unlike himself as Plasmius, when his eyes would flash magenta and the world went white. How could he explain to her, the very incident that had stupefied him into an inescapable spiral? When the dead man in question was her flesh and blood, and he sat uselessly in the corner, the culprit.

“…I’m sorry.”

“I don’t _give a fuck_ if you’re sorry!” She shouted, standing from her seat. He waited for her to rush towards him, to attack him or kill him herself, but she stood shaking in place.

“I know. I... I don’t know why he’s dead. I didn’t mean to-... to kill him- but it is my fault he’s dead. I know I can’t atone for it. I can’t bring him back, I...” Vlad babbled incoherently, stopping in the end to sob.

Jazz looked down at him in disgust. “Who are you to cry for my brother? Murderer!”

Vlad shook his head, tears spilling beyond any vestige of dignity. He closed his eyes, feeling the effects of his weeks of sleeplessness and hard liquor. His eyes burned as he cried alcohol-tinged tears.

Before he knew it, she had grabbed him by his collar and lifted him partway off the ground. She was stronger than she looked, even considering the weight and muscle mass that had decayed off of him in the past month. She held him by the sweater and shook him.

“If you can’t bring him back, then kill me too! You useless half-ghost! I bet you haven’t even looked for him!” At this, she slapped him, then resumed her two-handed hold. “You have all of his powers and more, all of our technology and more, and you never even looked for him?”

Vlad looked up at her in shock. The slap had sobered him the most he’d been since the funeral. “Jasmine...what- what are you suggesting?”

“You invalid, you dunce, you single-celled organism—what the hell! Did evolution leave your lineage behind? Is your brainstem connected, you web-footed, cave-dwelling, wannabe Grendel motherfucker—” She groaned, dropping him harshly to the floor. “You imbecile! I’m saying: you are a _ghost!_ Why haven’t you gone to the Ghost Zone to look for him? Are you so spineless? So completely without mind or innovation? Make him a body and bring him back!”

He stared at her in horror. “I don’t think you know what you’re proposing, Jasmine...”

“I know _perfectly well!_ This is what you study, what my parents study. If I have learned anything from being exposed to this tragedy of a lifestyle, it is that the boundaries between life and death are more mutable than what the public could handle to know. If he lived five years half-dead, what is so miserable about the suggestion he lives another sixty in an artificial body?”

He grabbed at the chair beside him for support and cautiously rose. Her intensity did not shift as her focus went from three feet below to one foot above; she stared through him. “I am not some Dr. Frankenstein, that can bind souls to foreign matter at will!” He retorted in exasperated confusion.

“Bullshit, Plasmius. Do you think I’m unaware of the cloning experiments? You know more than you wish to disclose. Frankenstein is not so far off a descriptor.”

He winced. “Yes, but... Well, you must know too, I never managed a stable clone. How would I ever go about making one, when the originator is dead? Let alone, to create a clone he can possess and live a normal life within. Do you realize what kind of science-fiction horror this proposal of yours truly is?”

“Science-fiction horror is all I’ve ever known.” She walked back to her seat, not sitting but downing half of her ice water. The pink slowly retreated from her skin. Vlad took the chance to move from the corner she had corralled him into, taking his seat again.

She spoke without facing him. “Don’t you think I wanted a normal life? Why don’t you go back and tell me, when I was a sophomore in high school, to cut it out with the ‘science-fiction horror’. When did I ever choose to be the sister of a ghost? The daughter of professional ghost-catchers? It’s utter nonsense.”

“I’m sorry, Jasmine.”

She turned towards him again. “If you understand how I feel, kill me.”

He stared at her, pained.

“Kill me so I can find Danny myself. I know you’re capable of murder, so just do it. I’ll be a ghost too.”

“Jasmine...”

“And I’ll be a better ghost than either of you. I won’t cause trouble for the people around me. I won’t make property damage all throughout the city. I won’t go off on tantrums and kill people. I won’t make my family worried always trying to protect others.” For the first time since she entered his parlor, Vlad spotted a tear brim in the corner of her eye. But it did not fall, and she did not waver.

“Make me into a half-ghost, so I can go into the Ghost Zone and bring my brother home. I don’t trust a drunken coward like you to do it.”

“Jasmine, this will not fix anything. I’m sorry, but I can’t honor your request. Please, be reasonable...” A hint of the old Vlad was coming through, but he felt ill-suited to lecture her even so. He didn’t deserve any respect, even as her elder, but he still felt the need to set her straight.

She only scowled at him. “If you don’t turn me, I’ll find a way myself.”

“Please do not, that would be incredibly dangerous. Your parents don’t need two dead children.”

“Rich for you to say!”

He frowned at her. “Let’s try Plan A, first. You said you want me to find his ghost for you. Why don’t you let me work on that, before jumping straight to suicide?”

Jazz looked very tired behind her posturing. She did not trust him, and he knew this. “You know what I was trying to say.”

“Yes, I know.”

“I’m going through grief. I don’t mean most of what I say.” she said, rubbing her eyes.

“Yes, I know.”

“...Don’t psychoanalyze me. And don’t bother my parents. Just be useful, and look for Danny.” She went into the kitchen to put the glass away, then passed by him on her way out of the mansion. “I was never here. Call me if you find any clues.”

There was a long silence, then from a few rooms over he heard the front door slam shut behind her. He fell back into his chair, more drained than if he’d been caught in a hurricane and drowned.


End file.
